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By Mike Brosnan

Mt Cook

Why do I climb this mountain so cold?
Surely I must be growing old
When is there the sense to stop clawing up to the top.

The Linda route, crevasses so deep
shiny sides, oh so steep.
Rope between us tight.
Each ready to hold with might.

Four pointing like crabs the Linda shelf.
To slip, could we save ourself.
Icy rock hurtles by,
Almost as from the sky.

The sun emerges, we slightly warm.
Night gives way to frosty morn.
My foot is frozen have I frostbite.
We trudge along with no respite.

The summit rocks a challenge real.
A test of knowledge, this is the deal.
We manage this to feel so proud.
And sit atop as on a cloud.

We're not there, the summit ridge to do.
The air is rare, will we make it thru.
Climbing now on mind and heart that's all.
Muscles stretched, or wound up like a ball.

The end in sight beckons us.
Can we do it? Yes we must.
The last short slope, oh so steep.
Though, the promise to me I must keep.

We stand atop with such pride.
It was worth coming for this ride.
And as the story I'd told of old.
I know why I climb this mountain, oh so cold.


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